“I will not fall in love with New York” is playing on my internal radio station on repeat mode. It´s a matter of safety, you see? Mental and physical safety. I can´t (can I?) fall in love with this city to the point of no return, particularly in a time when I know for a fact falling in love is inevitably getting closer and closer – (a not so silent irresistible thief approaching my windown, step by step, slowly but surely, aiming at the treasure box) – and destiny cannot be avoided.
Pretzels & hot dogs & toughness covered by a bulshit free atmosphere and buildings that remind us how small we are and how big we can become; the world inside of a city and the hardships of so many generations of foreigners who believed in the American dream and died (or lived) for it. Inspirations everywhere; harsh reality everywhere; fashion and bad taste everywhere; the Beauty and its Beast at their best.
(Reminder to the self (yeah: right!): “DO NOT FALL IN LOVE WITH NEW YORK to the point of no return“)
´Cried at the New York Museum – could see myself on the face of the first Irish who got to New York with nothing but dreams, despair and hope on their hands; went to a Tango show at Joyce theatre and dreamt side by side with the legs of the dancers (too fabulous for words); watched a kids pole dance at the subway; observed huge “derrières” (aka asses), proud as peacocks, swinging like they mean it and singing about Africa; had dangerous – FABULOUS – ideas for a show that is overdue (that, for some reason, hadn´t materialized strongly enough inside my heart´s mind); taught and learnt (as usual); saw the cutest guys in town (Manhattan is a very pleasant place to rest my eyes on 😉 ); allowed some of these cute guys to flirt with me (a kind of freedom Egypt never allowed me because flirting can easily end in disaster over there); gasped at the grandiosity, coldness and brutal ambition that transpires from each building in downtown Manhattan; marvelled at the variety of lives interwined in each other: heads, shadows, hands holding glasses, forks and knives holding pieces of warm food, voices, whispers: boyfriends and wives, daughters and fathers and everyone in between: Life is almost too much to bear: New York is too much. To. Bear. ? . Aside from “do not fall in love with New York”, there´s something else working on repeat mode inside my chest: “my cup runneth over:my cup runneth over; my cup runneth over”.